


Crowned Ones

by tokyonightskies



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Genderbending, Magic, Medieval/Mythical AU, Misuse of historical data, Soulmates, Thundershield Exchange
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-05
Updated: 2014-05-05
Packaged: 2018-01-22 02:15:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1572338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tokyonightskies/pseuds/tokyonightskies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stephanie (from Stephen)<br/>-<br/>from Latin Stephanus, from Greek Stephanos, from stephanos "crown, wreath, garland, chaplet; crown of victory," hence "victory, prize, honor, glory," properly "that which surrounds;"<br/>-</p>
<p>At the turn of the century, a brewer girl finds a peculiar amulet on the palm of a dead man. She didn't think much of the trinket, mere cupper thread and penchant of heathen make. Until the storm came, she was mere blood and bone and flesh. Unknowingly resting magic on her chest.</p>
<p>Until the storm came.</p>
<p>-</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crowned Ones

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Munchy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Munchy/gifts).



> My Thundershield fanwork exchange submission.
> 
> ~for Munchy, who explicitly wanted fem!Steve/Thor and pretty much told me I could go to town with this one. 
> 
> So I did.
> 
> I hope you like this monstrosity, I didn't intend for it to be this lengthy.
> 
> |
> 
> Don't bother assuming this is going to be historically correct, because there are bounds to be mistakes. Most of my source material originates from Wikipedia, but I did bother to use some historical articles. If you're interested, you can always ask me for them. 
> 
> |
> 
> I would like to thank maeneth13@tumblr, who has been a patient saint and dutifully read and corrected every update I've sent her from this work. I'm pretty sure that without her, this wouldn't have been possible. 
> 
> |

_they are the crowned ones,_

_rendered crownless._

_knowing that one day, their time will come._

_for history doesn't repeat itself, but it rhymes._

_._

I did not want anything,

write anything.

I just wanted you,

to taste the ink.

I'll shut the lion's mouth, if you let me.

(Balthazar; Lion's Mouth)

.

Her feet sink into the cold and wet sand, she shivers violently and pulls her ratty cloak tighter over her chest. On the horizon, the sun steadily rises and casts its golden glow over the gray waves. There’s no warmth, never has been in the tender breach of day. Stephanie swallows away the early morning nausea, carries on along the beach and shrinks her posture at the face of the ravage last night’s storm brought. She recalls the mighty roar of thunder and the battering of rain upon her humble abode, it’s no wonder a shipwreck lies helplessly stranded.

Although she didn’t expect _Nordics_. Planks from a mighty longboat are scattered all over the deep dark mud, the mast is toppled over and the crew… Stephanie slaps the back of her hand against the button of her nose, the heavy scent of blood, mixed into the familiar sea salt air, lingers over the coast. Three are on their backs, arms and legs sprawled with long reddish brown hair slicked in blood and water fanning the back of their heads. She quickens her step and stumbles onwards on the uneven sandy ground. Her honeycomb curls bounce onto her reddened cheeks as she shakes the men one by one. They’re dead, and yet she cannot shrug off the feeling there’s something here beckoning her.

Truly, Stephanie should be tending the ale now, inspecting the barrels and adding the sweetening herbs. It’s strange she experienced the pull of the sea as soon as she woke up, as if the sea swallowed something important and spat whatever it was back onto England’s shore. Forsaken her worn-down leather shoes, which she paid a pretty coin for, and surged from her wooden cottage on the edge of Dover down the beach. Low groaning catches her attention and she turns to the wreckage, brows scrunched and eyes squinted. 

Her knees hit the soil as she drops down and starts pulling away the wood, mindless of splinters and the cold. Whimsically the icy wind throws her hair into complete disarray, revealing the coral tips of her ears. Stephanie's hands still completely as the ship's carcass lays another one of its crew bared. His face is unrecognizable, drenched in dried blood and dirt. He tries to reach for her, muttering something her mind cannot understand, but his sentences are coughed out, cut apart. He's convulsing terribly with the furs covering his body shifting like waves in the motion. Stephanie holds onto his large and coarse hands, trying to make him stop moving.

"I'll get help." She promises, ready to stand and leave, but he manages to pull her down with whatever strength left in his weary bones. "I'll get you.." She starts again but he shakes his head forcefully, spitting blood and bile onto the muddy sand.

Discarding her cloak, she tries to warm him, rubbing the material over his strong arms and dabbing at the multiple wounds he's suffered due to the storm. His eyes are growing dim and dull, but he keeps his gaze fixed upon her. His shaky right hand jolts to his throat and tears a glimmering thread from around his flesh. Stephanie falls back in surprise when his arm suddenly drops onto the soil, palm open to show her an amulet.

"F _ó_ lkvangr.." He mumbles defeated before his shuddering stills and his left cheek delves into the mud, mouth slightly open and drooling. His saliva glistens in the soft autumn sunlight.

Her fingers prod at the amulet, made from cupper and gleaming like shed blood; it's cool to the touch but smooth, aside from the carved runes littered all over the surface. She doesn't suppose it'd be good to steal from a dead man, even if he's presumably an enemy, but he tore it off when he saw her, so perhaps it's now hers to keep. Stephanie plucks the necklace from the bloodied palm and turns the ornament into the sun's light. Her eyes narrow as she clearly spots the crude depiction of a fish.

With one last swipe of the thumb, the fragile-looking girl pulls the chain over her head and gathers her bearings. Perhaps if she pleads enough to the lord of Dover castle, they'll arrange a proper burial for these men. Despite the fact she dislikes to use her profession as leverage, the prospect of letting these men unburied drives a streak of discord into her. She casts one more glance at the shipwreck, where the waves are already lapping at the planks and the fabric of the sail to claim back what is theirs, and turns towards the rudimentary path forming itself footstep by footstep through the dunes.

 

.

 

Oak barrels are lined up across the right wall of her wooden shed, which serves as a brewery. Her father built their home a decade ago and included a large area for business practices, seeing as her mother specialized in brewing weak ales. Stephanie may be sickly but she’s a quick learner and picked up the craft fairly early, excelling in adding all sorts of herbs for medicinal and preservation purposes. Her fingers flit over a collection of juniper branches, before settling for a slender, exceptionally long one.

She busies herself by cutting up the branch, mindful to keep from crushing the berries, and throws the morsels into a boiling caldron. Her attention gets captured by the strange amulet again as the mixture bubbles pleasantly. As her thumb traces the lines making up the fish, a loud sound from outside startles her. Her eyebrows scrunch together, it’s almost as if something fell from the sky. Stephanie eyes the shield her friend James left her before he had to leave for the Scottish border on an expedition. More noises accumulate and throw her focus into disarray: rain falling, knocks on the poor excuse for a door, a wailing wind. Her hand falls onto the colorful shield, straight on the iron middle painted white.

“Who’s there?” She calls out loudly, pulling the shield closer. It’s a heavy one but she wields it well.

Soon, the door is opened and the cold slips into the shed. Only the rain and wind dare break the tense silence, followed less loudly by the low cracks of wood swallowed by flame. There’s a large man standing in the doorway, with a hammer hanging on his belt and a winged helmet adorning his head. Stephanie clutches the shield and uses it to cover her torso and most of her head. _Nordic_ , she thinks to herself and steels her nerves. He scrutinizes her, from her honeycomb hair to the tips of her toes, and he chuckles lowly, amused. Not one to be insulted, especially not in her own home, she surges forwards and bucks the round shield towards his abdomen, as if to show she’s not afraid.

His reaction is immediate and his large hands go up, to mark his good intentions. “I do not mean to cause you harm, my lady.” He tells her calmly, a wrinkle between his brows.

Surprised, the girl asks, “You.. You speak this language?

Taking a cautious step towards this strange girl bearing arms, palms open and empty, he responds lowly, “I have mastered many tongues, my lady. I am Thor of Asgard, son of Odin, known in this realm as the god of thunder. How could I converse with my worshippers if I had no knowledge of human speech?”

“Excuse me.” Stephanie says, strained and wary, “There is only one Lord and he does not dress like that.” Her words are accompanied by a nod in his general direction.

His lips, full and plump, curl into a sincere smile. Thor shakes his head and exclaims, “Your deity must not have enemies as I have, then. My apologies for disrupting you, my lady.” He takes a look around and seems somewhat displeased if the furrowing of his brows is any indication.

“Are you looking for something, sire?” She inquires through pursed lips, as she places the shield back onto the table and tends to her ale.

It seems her neck caught his eye, because she soon finds herself in front of his strong chest, decked in detailed armor with fine decorations and exquisite chainmail. Her pupils widen considerably when a pair of large hands reach for the cupper amulet. Stephanie huffs, pushes and shoves at him but for the life of herself, she cannot get the incredibly tall man to budge.

“How did you procure this?” He asks, motioning to the necklace.

She momentarily sucks her bottom lip into the cavern of her mouth, breathing through her nose. Thor’s staring down at her with incredibly blue eyes, and they contain a tempest capable of reducing her to complete silence.

“Well?”

Her fingertips stroke the cool surface again and the gesture reverberates into this man for his spine turns rigid and his eyes squint close, a soft exhale escapes his mouth.

She begins slowly, “I found it, I mean, someone gave it to me before he passed away..” Her words are coated with a tinge of frustration and desperation, “Listen, I would like you to leave, sire. I have duties to perform and I cannot dally..”

Thor silences her by carefully, gently cupping the amulet into his roughened palms and the warmth of his skin burns through the wool of her dress and stitches itself into her own flesh. It draws a gasp from her but he doesn’t notice, exclusively focusing on the encryptions.

“It was a mighty warrior who carried this token of mine.” He states lowly, finally letting go and placing distance between them. His cape spills richly from his shoulders and contrasts with the poor interior of the shed. He looks at her, holds her gaze as he asks, “Has he had the proper funeral, my lady?”

Shaking her head, Stephanie regards the ground for a small moment before speaking up, “I was going to ask the lord of Dover castle to bury the men, but I am behind on my duties and wanted to tend to my ale first.” She unconsciously rubs her left ankle with the toes of her right foot.

“They should be burned. We must build us a funeral boat and set those brave men aflame.” He exclaims, smiling brightly with arms open wide.

Distracted by the sound of low bubbling, she stirs the ale with her wooden ladle, grabs a cupper cup and scoops a large serving. Thor seems unaccustomed to being ignored because he flutters closer to her and looms behind her to regard the drought in curiosity. She turns to him again, holding the cup with both her hands and offers a kind smile.

“Would you like to try some, sire? It’s still warm..” She adds to her question before smirking slightly. “Do they also drink ales in.. Asgard, was it?”

Thor takes the cup graciously and answers, “Aye, we do indeed, my lady. You.. You still have doubts about me being a god here, do you not?”

“I’ve not seen you do anything godly, yet.” She responds honestly.

He grins and takes a large gulp. “ _Yet_ , my lady.”

 

.

 

She’s impressed when he manages to stack two entire barrels of beer in his arms and carry them around as if they’re the size and weight of two breads.

“Do gods run errands with mere mortals such as myself often, sire?” Stephanie asks with a teasing lilt, stringing her coin purse to the inside of her ratty cloak.

Thor grins widely, like the wolves would in the telltales of tattling sailors, who cheer to journeys unscathed and search pleasantries to dull the hardships of travel. His teeth are straight, uncommon around these parts, and fairly white. Stephanie wonders what his secret might be.

“Only those who enjoy their protection.” He responds as he rearranges the barrels in his arms, stocks them closer to his chest and exposes more of the large hammer hanging on his belt.

Her eyes fall onto the elaborate decorations, criss-crossing the steel elegantly and before she realizes what she’s doing, she babbles, “Do you smite the wicked with that?”

He guffaws heartily and replies, “Something of the sorts, lady Stephanie.”

Instead of having to push her cart to the stone castle of Dover, she finds herself with the luxury of being able to walk easily, without restrictions. Countless of illnesses have stricken her when she was younger, between the ages of six and thirteen, but her mother’s prayers in the Saxon church must’ve had some effect for God has smiled upon her and she walks still. Although she gets exhausted quickly and her strength leaves her muscles with even the most trivial of chores, the girl feels happy to have this strange self-proclaimed god to carry the barrels for her. Some people regard them curiously and she imagines with a tiny smile what a sight they must be. Dover’s brewer girl and a Nordic-looking giant with a winged helmet and a vibrant vermillion cape, it’s certainly unseemly.

His shadow falls onto her and even looms in front of her, a patch of gray on the slippery cobblestone path. She trots onwards with a raised chin, decked in her cloak and blonde curls framing her cheeks. Antony - _Tony_ , the village smith, looks up from his anvil and gives her a jovial grin and an elaborate wave.

“Unfaithful to your soldier, Stephanie?! Shame on you!” He jests loudly, tugging with one hand on the coarse mitten covering his vulnerable skin.

She rolls her eyes and retorts hotly, “I’m still a free woman, ‘Tony, I can walk around with whomever I like.”

Thor slips into a casual stroll or at least she assumes so, because the enveloping shadow doesn’t keep up with her pace. Had she cast a glance over her shoulder, she would’ve witnessed the thunder god openly staring at her backside, somewhat lost in thought.

Not to be outdone in a game of wits, the smith soon yells back, “If only I could forge a sword from your temper, brewer girl.”

“I’d rather have a better shield!” Her response comes easily, before she rounds the corner and disappears from the blacksmith’s sight.

Tony shakes his head, still grinning like a shrewd fox with a successful ploy, turns to the Nordic giant one of his best friends happened to bring along for some reason and says, “She’ll blow you away if you don’t watch out. Not that you probably understand a word I’m saying.”

Narrowing his eyes, Thor responds slowly, “Why do you Midgardians always presume I cannot speak your tongue? I’m no child.” His lips curl into a smile and he gives a polite, curt nod. “My appreciation for the advice, blacksmith.” And with those words he promptly follows the small blonde.

At a loss, Tony palms his anvil and puts all his weight against the stone on which his anvil stands, staring blankly at the cobblestone path. He whispers to himself, “Where did she possibly manage to find him? In a bard’s tale?” Scoffing, the dark-haired man claps his hands together to dust off his mittens and resumes work.

The trail leads upwards, to two large buildings built from stone and tiles, both erected proudly on grass green hills. Their dark matted towers contrast with the sky blue surrounding them and they stand a testimony of the Saxons and English resourcefulness for they’ve reused Roman foundations and tiles to construct the church. Walls surround the structure, encasing the courtyard possessively in protection against hostile forces. Stephanie stops in front of the gate, puts up a hand to show Thor to do the same and takes a tentative step forward, in the direction of the two guards.

“I’m here to address the Lord Warden of the Cinque Ports.” She speaks in a low, respectful tone, keeping her chin high and her gaze fixed on the right guard.

He clacks his feet together, squares his shoulders and sets his jaw. Thor meanwhile gingerly places the two barrels onto the ground, one hand on Mjölnir’s shaft and the other flat on the top of the left barrel, keeping crouched in case they might attack him. Around them, the wind grows restless, anxious, bites into the fabric of the girl’s cloak, into the pale cheeks of the two men, into the tresses of the god.

“Who did you bring here? State your business.” The guard barks, creased brows and red-faced. Thor frowns in response, rising slowly.

Stephanie huffs, settles her hands on her hips and answers coolly, “I’ve come to report a shipwreck. The men are dead, all but save one.” Her thumb jerks towards Thor, who keeps complacently silent. “We would like to request a proper burial for his men and bring drink to the Lord Warden to appease his mood.”

The weather calms, the suddenly amassed pregnant clouds scurry apart instead of swirling together, and the wind lies down again. She purses her lips, folds her hands together and rubs the sole of her left foot nervously against her right calf. They’re being lead through the gate, formed by the connection of two bulbous constructions from ashen stone and into the courtyard in front of the castle itself. Thor doesn’t seem impressed by the building, merely handling the double barrels in his muscular arms again without as much a sign of awe, only a mild curiosity for the soldiers in their peculiar armors, wielding their maces and practicing their bows.

“Put the barrels next to..” The guard falters for a second, obviously contemplating whether the Nordic man their resident brewer brought along, could comprehend his order. He looks at Stephanie who eggs him on by nodding. He continues, “To the bags of grain..”

“Please, sire.” Stephanie ends the guard’s sentence politely, smiling at Thor, who has been most gracious in helping her.

He returns the gesture and carefully puts the barrels onto the ground, against the castle wall. “You’re most welcome, my lady.” He says kindly, still glancing at the amulet resting upon her collarbone. The cupper glimmers in the scarce sunlight and contrasts with the dull fabric of her cloak.

Unexpectedly he extends his arm to her and while she notices how the guard looks on baffled at the gesture, the petite blonde doesn’t hesitate in resting her hand onto his wrist as he guides her into the castle. The scales of his armor are cool and are chinked together expertly, they feel indestructible and his strength below feels even more so. Stephanie hasn’t experienced much attention, despite having a favorable profession. Perhaps her frail frame scares men, she doesn’t exactly have child-bearing hips, a round pudgy belly nor a sizeable bosom. No, she’s almost boyish in features, despite her plush pink lips and honeycomb curls.

“Are all gods this respectable to women, sire?” She questions in a hushed whisper as they saunter through the hallway, surrounded by orange flames and wine-red draperies. They pale in comparison to Thor’s beautiful cape.

Thor grins, again wolf-like, and replies softly, “We are respectable to all human beings, lady Stephanie.”

She diverts her gaze coyly, whispering, “Why do you insist on referring to me as such? I am hardly a lady.”

“You cut yourself too short, I haven’t seen many women wielding a shield as expertly as you did upon our meeting.” He comments truthfully, staring ahead to the open doorway, leading to what he expects to be the great hall. Although this castle lacks grandeur and gold, it is scaled to the demands of humans and their trivial wars.

They’re greeted by the Lord Warden, who’s seated by the central hearth, and a throng of merchants, who’ve settled around him tattling loudly. Stephanie feels as severely underdressed in her commoner’s clothes as it is in comparison to Thor, but the merchants pause their persuasive monologues simultaneously to look up at the intrusion. Warmth gushes from the fireplace, travelling wider and further than the orange glow of the flames cast upon the Lord Warden’s feet.

“Ah, Stephanie.. Have you brought the usual amount of ale, dear girl?” He asks, crossing legs leisurely and waving his hand around. His brow quirks at the Nordic-looking stranger, but he remains silent on the point.

She nods a couple times, curtly, before hauling a hand through her shoulder-length curls and says in a most respectful tone, “I have, Lord Warden. And I bring news from the shore.”

His fingertip slowly swipes down the hard and pronounced line of his jaw, which stands in contrast to the bulb of his cheeks and the thickness of his neck. He seems pensive, close to indifference but decides to indulge her. “Oh? Do elaborate, dear.”

Some of the merchants in their warm-looking clothes start to chatter lowly amongst themselves, not bothering to hide their intrusive stares. Stephanie respectfully lowers her gaze and bends through her knees a bit, although the action is barely perceptible due to the length of her cloak and dress. Thor on the other hand, meets their perusal head-on, looking down haughtily on their pudgy, smaller frames with a sense of superiority. They frown at his lack of discretion in opposition to their own.

“Well, due to yesterday’s storm, a ship has been claimed by the sea and washed up on shore.. Uhm..”

She takes a step backwards to emphasize Thor’s presence and declares, although with a hint of self-consciousness, “Uhm, this is lord Thor, he claims knowledge of the men who’ve lost their lives and wishes to talk to you about them..”

His knuckles settle underneath his jaw as he tilts his head back and looks at the large blond man in his armor, velveteen cape and helmet. His brows dart upwards in shock. Thor takes a couple of large steps in the direction of the Lord Warden, shoulders squared and chin high. Their gazes are locked and Thor’s eyes alone could conjure storms equal to the one of yesterday night.

“I would request of you to give permission for a burial befitting the brave warriors lost to storm and sea last night. I’ve been informed of their deaths by the lady and I found it my duty to settle the request.” He simply states, refraining from niceties and grand decorum. His only politesse comes for Stephanie, whose palm rests over _his_ amulet.

If the Lord Warden is insulted by the lack of titles, he doesn’t directly show. His group of merchants blatantly show their dislike in taut-drawn grimaces and narrowed eyes. He raises his hand flatly in the air and surges slowly forwards, uncrossing his legs. The wooden soles of his neat and new leather shoes hit the stone floor.

“And you found that enough ground to barge in my castle and dictate my future actions?” He asks, feigned disbelief in his voice. One of those plump idiots to his right has the audacity to laugh.

Stephanie can smell rain-soaked soil, fresh and crisp, like tall grass being chopped by the scythe. The cupper of the amulet almost feels liquid.

Thor bristles lowly and bites back, “No, I was asking you first on the lady’s suggestion, but I can just as easily ignore your authority and proceed with the proper custom.”

His fingers curl into the wooden rests of his chair and the Lord Warden looks furious. Stephanie fixes her posture and strides over to Thor, placing a hand on his lower-arm in a silent plea. He doesn’t seem to back down and there’s rain outside, pouring all of a sudden. _Out of nothing._

“I can make you swallow those words, heathen.” He sneers, eying the hammer on Thor’s belt and the helmet on his fair blond hair.

“For a petty human lord, you lack the power to force upon me anything at all. Nor do you possess any grandeur to convince me otherwise. I am Thor of Asgard, son to the Allfather and crown prince. My will raises a tempest. What, Midgardian, could you raise? An army?” He sounds furious, red-cheeked and with a set jaw.

Stephanie shakes her head gingerly and settles herself surely between the seat of the Lord Warden and the strange man who allowed her the amulet. She gives both of them a heated glare and scolds loudly, “Sires, I beg of you to stop this quarrel immediately! This is about men who have lost their lives! Not about your beliefs of authority or strength.”

It’s still raining outside, heavily, and there must surely be hail mingled in the clouds, for the icy stones pelt mercilessly onto the French windows in testimony. They leave behind imprints of splattered stars on the glass.

“Do you condone his attitude towards me then, brewer girl? Towards your Lord Warden? Where is your loyalty?! Your religiosity?!”

He’s practically burning with rage, his vein-riddled hands, already displaying his true age, are shaking in anger and his voice is booming, a pallet of disdain and disapproval jump off his words. She can hear the color in his tone and it’s a bruising red. Thor doesn’t stand for the implications and surges forwards again, fingers curled around the shaft of his hammer, ready to take and strike.

“Enough!” Stephanie yells and if it’s more akin to a shriek, she refuses to take notice. She’s between the two again, palms pressed together and shoulders squared. She takes a deep breath and reprimands them, “You should be ashamed of yourself, Lord Warden. As my mother has done before me, I have served your castle and your taverns well. And you sire..” Her gaze falls upon Thor, whose agitation is momentarily forgotten as he stares down her angry form, “You should show respect to the Lord Warden especially when you’re here on the behalf of those men.”

Thor gives her a slow onceover, before nodding and admonishing in a calmer albeit shaking voice, “I have let my temper get a rise out of me. I apologize to the both of you.” His eyes don’t leave the tiny blonde girl in front of him though as he expresses his regret.

Outside the sudden downpour ceases as abruptly as it appeared and the last droplets of rain and the last pelts of hail dwindle once the sunrays filter through the colored glass of the windows again. It’s eerie quiet inside the great hall until the Lord Warden scrapes his throat uneasily and drags the heels of his expensive leather shoes over the stone of the floor. It’s a low scratching sound that nonetheless rattles Stephanie to the core, absorbed as she was under Thor’s scrutinizing. Her breath escapes her and her posture drops. She’s small again, exhausted as the thrill leaves her, shrivels away.

“Yes, _well.._ Stephanie darling, you may personally bury those men as a token of my gratitude for your unwavering service, and of course for your cherished friend..” He adds the words as an ambivalent afterthought, looking to a merchant in vibrant green to his right, both are grinning wolfishly.

They only lack Thor’s majesty when they do so, Stephanie cannot help thinking, rubbing her calf with the hollow of her foot slowly under her dress.

 

.

 

Given a small bundle of coin to cover any expenses, they enlist Tony’s help to build a few rafts from the rotten and damp pieces of wood left from the wreckage. Few iron bolts hold the planks together. Thor orders her to buy cushions and meat for the ritual, while he busies himself by cleaning their linen clothes and washing their blotted and dirty faces. Two days since Thor’s unexpected arrival, Tony and Stephanie gather at shore during the late afternoon with the expenditures and a barrel of mead in their presence, the blacksmith was as kind to carry the brunt of the gifts but his teasing tongue never ceased regarding the ‘Viking’ she’s encountered.

Stephanie settles the cushions onto the flat surface of the first raft, which Thor easily keeps grounded with one foot down. Tony meanwhile rolls the barrel onto the one chosen for the leader of the bunch and places the largest portion of ham next to the mead. After the three rafts were decorated similarly, the tall blonde asks the blacksmith to swap places and moves to pull the body wearing the most ornaments onto the raft, blanketed in food and plush.

“Do you want me to give this amulet back?”  She plucks the token from her sternum and holds the metal between two fingertips.

He shakes his head – he’s forsaken the helmet and his cape, as well as his breastplate, seeing as she had some leftover clothes from her father lying around.

“I would rather you have it, Stephanie.” Thor replies softly, blanketing her small hand with both his palms. She averts her eyes helplessly, overwhelmed by the proximity.

Tony scoffs from the side, bravely holding onto the raft which threatens to slip into the sea. “Don’t want to cast a shadow on your sunshine, Steph, but my arms are growing kind of wary from holding dead men afloat.” He budges in, overdramatically articulating his words.

Guffawing, the tall blond drops her hand and turns to face the blacksmith, whose boots and trousers are soaked and whose arms are trembling slightly. Thor gives him a friendly nod and motions him to move away, thus letting the makeshift boat drift onto the waves. Soon, the other two, holding the crewmembers, are also set to the water’s mercy. Once they’re far enough from shore, Thor grips his hammer and stretches his arm above his head. Stephanie takes a few steps back in wonder and nearly tumbles against Tony when she loses her step.

“What is _your Viking_ planning to do?” He ponders against her exposed ear as he steadies her. “Call upon a serpent?”

She lifts her gaze to the sky, silently, where the hammer contrasts against the rapidly darkening blue. Her brows furrow together quizzically when clouds gather together seemingly out of nowhere in one concentrated spot.

Thor hauls the hammer down in one swift movement onto the sand.

“Unbelievable.” Tony murmurs as simultaneous with the action, a bolt of lightning, clear and bright blue, descends from the gray mass, splits into a fork and hits all three of the rafts. They catch fire and the flames reflect dully on the sullied water.

Stephanie titter-tatters over to Thor, as cumbersome as it is in the muddy sand, and pulls onto his strong shoulders. She exclaims in wonder, “You truly are a god, and the hammer.. You were not in jest about smiting the wicked with it..” She nearly falls onto him then, staring straight ahead at the flickering rafts upon sea.

“Reckon we could keep your Viking around, brewer girl? Think of how much coin we could acquire if he pulls that trick a couple of times.” Tony proposes humorously from behind her.

They remain silent, but if Stephanie’s grip tightens a tad on his shoulders, Thor either doesn’t notice or doesn’t remark on it.

 

.

 

His farewell is nothing short of spectacular. Colors shoot straight downwards from the sky, swallowing him whole and leaving the meadow smoldering. She suddenly feels so terribly insignificant as she stands amidst bent grass blades and strange soil markings. There’s fatigue clear underneath her eyes and in the sagging of her shoulders, and despite how she wants to cry because she’ll miss that peculiar god-prince, Stephanie forces herself to smile.

After all, his amulet still rests snuggly between her breasts and he promised her last night in front of her own hearth, he’d return as long as she wears it.

“You’re in over your head, aren’t you?” Tony asks casually, propped up against a beech.

Stephanie rolls her eyes, turning to glance at him.

“Don’t you have work to do, blacksmith?”

He grins, as he’s wanton to do when they’re going to exchange wits. His teeth aren’t as yellow as the farmers’ or the other artisans’, not nearly as bad as those of the sailors, but they’re stained from beer and bread.

“Here I thought questions warranted an answer, Steph. Besides, don’t his type of gods take the poor damsels along for a passionate night full of debauchery and unchristian delights?” He rubs his chin thoughtfully as he ponders this, dirtying his goatee with soot.

She huffs, crosses her arms over her chest and starts to move in his general direction. Her bones are wary from sleeping in the wrong angle and her chest aches.

“I’m hardly the damsel anyone would spend the night with so carelessly, Tony.” Stephanie mutters.

It’s infuriating how the skin around his eyes crinkles.

“Hardly the damsel or hardly anyone would spend the night with? You’ve got the entire stubbornness thing working for you.” He teases kindly, pushing himself off the stem and falling into step with her.

“I suppose if it worked for you, it might work some wonders for me.” She muses in sweet tone before nudging him with her elbow.

Tony merely wraps his arm around her waist, supporting her a bit. He knows Stephanie’s hurt by the sudden departure and even if he’s disinclined to show any obvious support –he’s always been the kind of person who battles grief with laughs, he’s there for her nonetheless.

.

It’s been a whole year since she’s last seen James and she sorely misses her best friend. There have been sporadic messengers, reporting the progress on the expedition or bringing the bearings of fallen soldiers, but none had anything to say about her friend.

And ever since the harbor increased in size, there has been more activity and the energy echoes faintly in the crisp air. She almost cannot keep up with the taverns’ demands and although muscle starts to grow in her thin arms, the production is tedious. There have been more sightings of vagabonds between the trees and she’s been forced to buy heavy iron locks for the door of her brewing shed.

Sometimes she wonders if Thor remembers her and if he can see her or hear her, from wherever his mystical Asgard is. It’s not that difficult to imagine him on a gilded throne in his majestic armor and winged helmet, in a great hall far greater than the one she sees in Dover castle, in a castle like she imagines those in Bruges or Paris to be. Her mouth curves into a smile whenever she thinks of him and her fingers instinctively clutch at his amulet whenever she does.

Heimdall sees and Heimdall smiles secretively and as any dutiful guard, he notifies his crown prince of the mortal girl’s ways and manners. Thor cannot see her nor hear her, but he remembers the fall of her honeycomb curls on her thin shoulders, the anger in her voice when she’s upset, the ragged cloak he’d exchange with one of brocade, the shabby dress with an armor like Sif’s or a beautiful gown like his mother’s. _He’d paint her in gold and gems if he could._

 

.

 

There’s a commotion in her shed, the sound of loud lumbering boots clacking on the wooden floor and of deep dark voices cursing in the early morning hours, and she’s awoken by the gnashing noise of steel mangling wood. The covers of her bed are thrown off her legs, cast aside, and she’s up and about, reaching for her well-worn shoes and hurriedly putting them on. Her cloak is around her shoulders, to cover up her sleeping garment and shield her from the dawn’s cold, and she grabs the multi-colored shield from her sturdy dinner table, grateful she took it inside last night.

Once Stephanie’s made it outside, she’s greeted with the sight of her shed’s door knocked off its black iron hinges and unceremoniously dropped against the wall. It makes her clutch the handle of her shield even harder. Her teeth clench together in suppressed anger. Louder the voices tattle, slurred from the ale they stole from her and tainted by accents removed from the coastal region. As she nears the open doorway, the smell of ale greets her face-first, floods her nostrils along with the scent of paraffin from the burning candle, bright and orange. Her shed seems so warm and welcoming all of a sudden. Ale trickles down the doorstep, wets the grass and drips into the soil, and when she steps past the doorway, her shoes leave behind two soggy footsteps.

Three boorish men sit along one of her barrels, the top is split open and the mugs are passed around. They laugh loudly, seated in half a circle on the wet floor and having disposed of their muddied knapsacks and wolf furs. One of them – the largest and burliest with a full red moustache and cheeks like apples – knocks onto the wooden planks of the broken barrel as he howls at what the one to his right said. She rolls her eyes and taps the edge of her round shield against the doorframe. This captures the attention of the smallest, poor lad looks around her age, barely past seventeen. He’s got beady eyes, like a rat’s and she immediately dislikes him for the toothy grin he sends her way.

“Look, look, a girl! Y’reckon she lives ‘ere?”

Definitely not from the coastal area, she surmises at the accent. Red, she dubs the one with the moustache, scrambles to an upright position and after a few mishaps manages to end up on both his feet. Stephanie cocks an eyebrow and straightens her back. Her shield feels heavy but she hasn’t had problems maneuvering with it before.

“You want to pour us poor boys some ale, sweet’art? We’ll be good to you if you do.” He coos, beckoning her by crooking his fingers.

Her plump lips curl into a pretty smile and she sways over to him. He looks down at her frail frame and reaches out to take the shield from her, purring pleasantly _good girlie_ when she’s close enough to hear him. He positively reeks of alcohol, _her alcohol_. The other two are sneering at her, like hungry hounds waiting for a treat.

Stephanie bats her eyelashes slowly and whispers to big ol’ Red, “You’re trespassing, sire. I don’t take kindly to intruders, you must understand..” Her smile widens until her dimples appear.

Then she slams the flat of her shield straight against the bulk of his belly with all her force, making him stagger backwards and clutch his stomach in recoil. He gasps, slack-jawed and pupils turned into black saucers. Stephanie doesn’t hesitate one second, pushing the star-shaped white center against his face. He falls down with, presumably, a broken nose. The youngest is the quickest to grapple for his knapsack, crawls over to the beer barrels and searches for his weapon, while the other one brings both his hands to cover his head, afraid for a beating.

“John! You coward, don’t jus’ sit there!” The other yells frantically, fingers positively shaking.

Bringing her foot down on John’s knee, she warns him, “If you promise to go now, I’ll let you out without another strike. Otherwi-..”

Her words are swallowed back as his right hand unexpectedly grasps her ankle and he tries to pull her down onto the ground. She shrieks and brings her shield down in front of her to take the blow. Momentarily had the girl forgotten about the swift motions of thieves and burglars. The youngest seems to have found what he was looking for, because he shoves a dagger over the planks. Her knees hurt from the fall and her dress is wet from the ale. Red is groaning and moaning from his spot.

John chuckles and slurs, “ _Girlie_ , you sure know how to cause us poor lads trouble. But don’t you worry your pretty ‘ead, love. I’ll teach you some well-deserved manners.”

Stephanie shoots her leg up and hits him square in the jaw with the ball of her foot. The youngest creeps back to her side and thwarts her attempts at standing up again by clawing at her wrists. Holding his chin in pain, John brings up his free hand to strike at her ribs, but she breaks free from the struggle and turns around. His knuckles connect harshly with her shield and he curses between gritted teeth.

Rain starts to pour in unparalleled ferocity and there’s the rumble of thunder in the distance. Stephanie doesn’t notice the weather’s folly and pushes the man back with her shield. She’s up again, dashes forwards and bashes John onto the ground, rendering the air from his throat. Her lungs act up and she forces herself to withhold those ugly raspy coughs. She turns towards the youngest but gets distracted by multi-colored light and the overpowering smell of fire.

“Thor? Is that…” She mumbles before hearing the clattering of metal onto wood.

Just as a large familiar figure fills the entirety of her doorway and wants to bellow a greeting, Stephanie punches the youngest one against his sternum with her fist and knocks him out by shoving her shield into the side of his head. He wails when he tumbles onto the pieces of wood and wounds his palms. She holds her chin high and surveys the damage.

Her tone is poisonous when she reprimands the three of them, “You will reimburse me for my troubles and my damages.” Her chest heaves from exertion and she’s aching for water but she continues nonetheless, “Or else I might not be as kind.”

“You are more formidable than last, my lady.” Thor speaks reverently, elbow propped against the doorframe and eyes appraising her.

She drives her shield unto the floor and leans heavily in support, smiling warily but genuinely.

 

.

 

“I.. I don’t know what to say, _exactly_.”

Golden bracelets, penchants, braided necklaces and gemmed rings are scattered on her sturdy desk. Each piece seems to be worth more than all the holy artifacts and artwork found inside Dover’s churches and the Lord Warden’s treasury. Her fingertips brush idly over a cool silver cord, depicting a serpent devouring its own scaly tail.

Thor laughs good-naturedly and pushes his warm palm onto her lower back, almost intimately. He bends down to whisper confidentially against the sensitive shell of her ear, “Perhaps a word of gratitude would be customary, Stephanie.”

She shivers as his hot breath engulfs her skin and pushes her thumb onto the serpent’s sky blue eye, cut from stone, to distract herself. What could she possibly begin with such wealth? Simply said, there was no need for lavish garb or fine jewelry in her household, she could barely manage three hoodlums from a distant wood and she dares not imagine what attention these beautiful fineries would attract.

“Thor, I..” Stephanie begins unsurely, staring up at his eyes and the skin wrinkled around them in amusement and curiosity. Her hands still their motions and her chest heaves from a deep sigh. She shakes her head and says, “Thank you for keeping me in your heart, for these gifts. But, you saw the type of men I just dealt with and how rattled such an encounter left me. I could not possibly keep thieves from taking these jewels from me, not with an old shield.”

His lips settle into a grim thin line, but he hasn’t moved away from her. His chest remains a warm wall of muscle and flesh behind her bony spine. Stephanie resists the urge to lean into him, it’d be improper of her to assume romantic affection despite the gold and silver evidence on her desk.

“I am grateful.” She concludes, looking at his profile and gingerly reaching out to touch his stubbly jaw. He stares down at her and nods.

His answer is exactly what she needed to hear. “Next time, I’ll come with weapons then, my warrior child.”

And she laughs sweetly when his fingertips brush over hers and he comes to hold her small hand.

 

.

 

Thor is true to his word for as quick as two weeks later, he’s returned with a round metal shield decked in white and blue and red, vivid stripes swirling from an opal center to the sides. She rushes to meet him in the meadow, ignoring the stench of burnt grass blades and scorching earth. Her arms wind around his waist and she squeals excitedly when he lifts her up high and twirls her around.

“Thank you, thank you. I can’t possibly repay you.” Stephanie manages to say between chortles and chuckles, spilling from her plush open lips. Her hair whips against her bright red cheeks.

Her feet find steady ground once more when he carefully puts her back down. They’re both exhilarated from spinning around, wide-eyed and bright-eyed. She’s gasping for air and leans against him for support while his laughter booms around her like it’s the _only_ thing that matters for now.

He gingerly pushes a few stray curls behind her ear and says, a little out of breath, “It was my pleasure, my lady.”

“Tony is going to turn green of envy.” She chirps cheerfully, reverently touching her new shield and memorizing the feel of iron with the pads of her fingertips. “And James as well, when he returns from the north.”

 “Verily so. I have a gift for the blacksmith as well.” Thor declares proudly, pointing at the sack he’s brought with him, filled to the brim with shining equipment such as hammers, wire brushes, tongs and vises.

Stephanie glows golden in the sunlight and the god suddenly feels rather silly for wishing her bejeweled and crowned. He feels he should’ve realized she would have no use for decorative ornaments around her thin wrists and ankles, around her slender neck or hanging from her ears. Not that Thor doesn’t think she wouldn’t look gorgeous, but she would’ve looked caged in those cumbersome dresses and fineries.

 

.

 

Heimdall asks him if he’s in love with the mortal girl upon his return. His silence is poignant, even more so the crease between his brows and the light tremble of his hands and wrists.

Heimdall sees _all_.

 

.

 

“I am positively enamored with your shield, brewer girl.” Tony drawls for the third time as she practices defensive movements.

It’s been three years since Thor last visited them, brought them their gifts and spent five evenings telling wondrous tales in the accompaniment of food and drink. James never returned home. One of the messengers, the very last one, told them their punitive force was defeated during an especially cold night. He remembers blood upon snow, vividly red, redder than the brocade draperies in Dover castle. Stephanie never would’ve thought she could cry so much and so heavily and her body nearly collapsed from inebriation and sorrow. Her body has finally adapted to the labor and more muscle adorns her wiry arms and legs. While her frame lacks the customary curves a woman of her position should have, she looks healthier and even eyes taller.

She slams her shield into the tree trunk, leaving jagged indents into the wood and staggers backwards, panting. Her forehead and neck are gleaming with sweat and Thor’s amulet feels slick and dirty against her sternum, underneath the fabric of her dress.

“So am I.” Stephanie drags her wrist over her hot face.

The blacksmith adjusts his stance, settles himself on the quilt and takes a loaf of bread between his hands. His knife cuts smoothly through the lump and his lips smack together wetly as he begins to eat with gusto. For once, his face is cleaned up and free from soot, ash and other dirt.

He looks up at her when she charges at the trunk again. Metal upon wood. The timbre of his voice betrays but a hint of worry when he asks, “Are you serious about going up north?”

She drives her shield flatly into the disfigured trunk, slicing through the bark forcibly and the speed with which she handles the shield almost makes her tumble down onto the grass. Her teeth grit together anxiously and she forces herself to hold her balance, maneuvering her shield flatly against the stump of wood. Dust eddies from the wooden cortex due to impact. Her head is throbbing.

But she sounds so terrifyingly firm when she responds, “Yes.”

“What do you expect to find, Steph?”

Her resolve is iron when she stomps the shield straight down the trunk.

“I have to bring a part of him back, Tony. I promised him as he promised me.”

Tony chews and swallows down the last bit of bread, crumbs cluttered in his goatee and onto his brownish linen shirt with the strings undone, where his chest hair shows. He holds the hilt of his knife loosely as he stares at her pensively, arm leaning casually on his kneecap.

“And if your god returns from the skies above?”

Stephanie unconsciously rests her hand over her chest, over the concealed amulet where his inscriptions rest. “You think he’ll stop here _first_ if I’m not present?” She almost sounds like her cheeky self if not for the obvious strain on her voice.

“Is that a trace of hubris, I detect? Someone get the priest, we need to organize a grand confession.” He plops down on his back and grins widely when she splutters in indignant protest.

 

.

 

Travel is harsh and she’s unaccustomed to riding a horse. She still can’t believe how compliant the Lord Warden had been when she asked for leave and donated her this sturdy, defiant animal to ease the burden of long journeys on uncharted paths. It’s a month’s journey to the encampment where James had been stationed before he was summoned to join battle and that’s optimistically speaking, if the rains are tempered and the bandits are absent. Already, she has lost a day because of her body’s shortcomings, when the air seemed impossible to suck between puckered lips and her lungs were burning in protest to wisps of dandelion seeds blowing past her. Stephanie dislikes the limitations spring drives into her core.

To make matters worse, blood has been staining her inner thighs and if she hadn’t secretly cursed the Lord’s punition to the Eve before, she would do so today more vocally. Her horse rides on regardless, his beautiful fur separated from her menstrual blood by cloth and her dress. Hopefully the discovery of a stream will bring solace to her unclean state soon.

 

.

 

“What are you planning to do with that cat, my son?” Frigga asks, standing in the center of the courtyard in front of a throng of younger girls. Magic still sparks from her fingertips, green and crisp.

He grins sheepishly, as if he were caught with confections instead of a simple animal in his arms. It mewls up to him, pink nose and half-opened golden eyes. His thumb pushes tenderly onto the white stripe on its forehead.

“It is a gift for a beloved friend.” His answer is not entirely false, he supposes.

She merely cocks an eyebrow in response, but the hint of a smile plays along her lips. As if she wants to pretend that she doesn’t realize the implications of such a precious present. Cats are given to brides on Asgard, to ensure the health and prosperity of the household the woman has just entered.

Frigga turns back to the children, who are chattering amongst one another, wondering loudly who their prince’s beloved must be. They’ve conveniently ignored the notion of friendship in their gossiping and quarreling.

Her raised hand commands their silence easily.

She suggests simply with that inexplicable motherly kindness, “Perhaps you should feed the animal first before you leave.”

 

.

 

“To Midgard, Heimdall. You know where I wish to be.”

“My lord, it is my duty to inform you…”

“Please, I do not wish to dally, this animal is growing impatient in my arms.”

He relents, pushing his sword into the slot of the Bifrost as Thor takes his position in front of the mythical gate. Carefully the prince pushes the cat’s head against his shoulder, cradling the animal with his large open palm.

“Do it, Heimdall.” He commands, casting the gatekeeper an admonishing look.

His journey is introduced by a loud click as the blade is turned, followed by the mechanical whirling of the bronze gears. His eyes squint as the bright light engulfs his figure. He can barely hear the cat whimper in distress.

 

.

 

Her cottage and shed are forsaken, even the production of brews appear to have been ceased for quite some time. There are bundles of dried herbs neatly stacked on the sturdy desk, where her old wooden shield also rests, and two crates of withering, yellowish malts are forgotten against the wall. No notice decorates her doors nor could the Asgardian find any slip of parchment where word on her current location was written. In his arms, the cat starts to squirm uncomfortably, restless for being swept in an embrace for such a long duration. Absentmindedly his thumb strokes the animal’s forehead. He lingers around her home for a while, observing how dust and mold has gathered on the surface of her table and in the joints of her chairs’ legs. It’s dreadfully sullen, as if her disappearance took the warmth from her hearth and snuffed candle flames from the wax.

Only after a while – he cannot even say whether minutes or hours constituted the time he simply spent watching the emptiness in her cottage reflect the emptiness in his stomach, Thor thinks to move to the city of Dover and visit the blacksmith. Surely if someone would _know_ anything about Stephanie’s whereabouts, it would be loudmouthed and brass-brazen Tony. It’s not in his nature to be pessimistic, but he knows mortality works differently for Midgardians then it does for him and the thought of _death_ strikes a vile aftertaste down his throat. At the least the cat stills its frantic movements and resigns itself to inertia.

Dover is still the same, with cobblestone paths and a castle looking over from the distance, with stone and wood and the smell of people cluttering together and their imprint on the scenery. Some young women with their baskets of linen and blushing cheeks, pause their conversation to gawk wide-eyed and flabbergasted at his presence. He passes them by with a courteous smile, mindful how much of an outsider he must look in his traditional wear and a pet nestled against his chest. He picks up the harsh clanging of metal upon metal and the softer crackling of something burning in a furnace. Soon enough his feet lead him towards the open blacksmith shop, where Tony bangs his hammer onto the blade of a knife. Sparks scatter and eddy slowly down the anvil onto the ground.

Thor clears his throat audibly, trying not to acknowledge the prominent gray threading through Tony’s dark hair nor the wrinkles around his eyes. The cat grows frightened and unsheathes its claws in threat at the scales of Thor’s armor. He can barely hold the poor thing still.

“My friend…” He says, softer than he usually would. It’s enough to cause a pause in the steady movement of hammer-onto-blade.

“Well, would you fancy that, if it isn’t the magical Viking.” Tony jokes, voice hoarse and dry, but the curve of a smile graces his mouth.

He carefully places the ginger cat onto the floor and watches it race towards the sanctity of the blacksmith’s home. Tony follows his example and puts his hammer down, before wiping the sweat from his brow with his forearm. His goatee is still covered in soot and it gives Thor a sense of familiarity. Not all is lost.

“Any reason why you brought me such a present or do you favor me that much?” He ponders aloud, moving towards a stool next to the counter showcasing his wears.

Thor shakes his head, leaning against the stone wall separating street from store and briefly closing his eyes. He speaks lowly, “I would’ve preferred to have gifted the animal to Stephanie.”

He needs to see her and it takes him every ounce of his self-control and thinly-stretched patience not to shake the blacksmith and demand her presence. Yet, the ominous display of time’s talons on Tony’s countenance fills him with possibilities he’d rather not consider.

 Of course the blacksmith gets the hint, he’s awfully bright and has a sharp tongue to aid his clear, keen mind. His answer comes quick enough. “She’s gone up north, ‘fraid she can’t accept kittens right now.”

“Up north?” Thor echoes, pushing himself into motion and soon taking the center of the shop for himself. “What is she doing up north?! And is she by herself?!” He questions, moving closer to the seated blacksmith.

Looking taken aback by the sudden outburst, Tony stiffens lightly, eyes wide and unblinking. He plops his hand squarely on his knee and rubs his forearm with the other softly, mindful of the coarse leather from his mitten on his bare skin.

“She’s gone to retrieve James’ possessions, or what’s left of ‘em anyway.” He answers lowly, one eyebrow cocked high. He inhales deeply as he watches the other’s chest heave in anticipation and barely contained anger.

Tony does the only thing he’s capable of in an unpredictable situation, he rambles, “She’s got her shield with ‘er, and she practiced fighting for months. Honestly, you could barely recognize her right now, she’s a lot stronger, I mean, she’s still thin as a stick, but a rather cutesy stick. Wait, that came out butchered, can I try again?” He grins awkwardly.

“Where do you wager she’s at this point, blacksmith?” Thor asks instead, fingers curling around the handle of that enormous lightning-sprouting hammer of his.

His grin turns into a grimace, while his mind is calculating possible routes, landmarks and possibilities.

“I reckon she can’t be far past Maidstone, at best near London..” He replies unevenly, aching for a strong drink.

Thor nods, almost complacently. “Was she wearing a talisman?” It’s a peculiar question, seemingly off topic, even.

“I believe so? Do you mean that cupper thing on a thread? ‘Cause hardly a day goes by without it being around ‘er neck.”

“Very well. I thank you for this information, my friend. Please be as kind to provide the animal with sustenance and milk. I do intend the pet to be Stephanie’s upon our return.” He responds calmly, wearing a casual yet content smirk.

Somehow the blacksmith does not dare wonder _how_ this god-prince would possibly realize his bold assertions seeing as a good month of travel lies between him and that brave, teetering on  stupid brewer girl. He’s not even certain that’s the correct route she took, but he vaguely remembers sending her out in the direction of Maidstone, where one of his acquaintances works as a tanner and could provide her shelter for the night.

Soon enough, Tony learns exactly _how_ Thor plans to travel, because he’s unhooking the leather strap of his hammer, swirls the mighty weapon around so fast his eyes cannot trace the outline anymore and simply takes off into the air. For a brief moment he blankly stares into nothing, barely noticing the people flocking around him and murmuring in disbelief against one another about the second coming of their holy Messiah, still staring at the houses and the patches of field he can see between them. Tony eventually shakes his head and slides from the stool. He could _really_ use something strong right now.

 

.

 

Her toes curl tightly into the cold, abrasive mud as she stands in the miserable excuse for a stream, holding her skirt above her knees in a bundle with one hand while she scoops up water and washes her calves. She’s checked her surroundings multiple times to make sure no one would sneak up on her or cause an unwelcomed interruption. At least the water’s fresh and relatively clean, aside from the green algae floating atop and the few stems of yellowish reed standing up straight along the banks. It’s odd to feel refreshed for a change after she’s changed dresses, removed the bloodstains and unrolled some bandage she imagined using for other causes. The horse neighs irritably and scrapes its hoof deliberately slowly along the ground, digging up some fresh, stark black earth, she had to tie the animal to a tree to keep it from wandering off the meadows around them and it’s has done nothing but moping the entire time. If she’d been in any better mood she would’ve laughed.

Her hair hangs around her cheeks in cool wet tassels, the weight of the water dragging down her usual curls and tugging down the bounce. Her cheeks are probably a bright red, but she feels considerably better than she has done three days in a row. Once the girl’s done washing away the dirt between the small stubs she calls toes, she hitches up her skirt higher, not quite helping herself from throwing a few more mistrusting looks over both her shoulders, and starts to wrap the bandage around the inside of her thighs, across her bottom and back to the front as to make a relatively white, itchy triangle. Once she’s finished, she quickly drops her skirt, smoothes out the wrinkles, wraps some smaller gauze around the width of her feet and puts on her boots. When she tilts her head back up, the overwhelming warmth of the sun hits her face-first.

Stephanie desperately wants to plop down in the grass on her back, arms spread and eyes closed to enjoy this peaceful moment. Her belongings, a threadbare knapsack, her trustworthy shield and a sharp sword Tony pushed into her arms last minute before she left, are two or three steps removed from where the petulant horse sulks and buries its nuzzle into the long gleaming blades of grass. It would be unwise to dip her fingers into her rationed food already, but her stomach is protesting and her body craves for something sweet, like the honey she’s brought along on a whim. Instead, the girl merely shakes her head, pushes herself off the ground and strolls over to her gifted horse, she should’ve made it to Maidstone already, instead of being stranded here.

Something dark and rapidly moving in the sky catches her attention, too big to be a peregrine or a rook for that matter, and as it progresses towards her, she fears a star broke away from the night and dipped into the daytime for it only becomes larger and larger. It’s an odd mixture of silver and red, blurred from the speed and distance. Her horse starts to panic, trampling the earth between its hooves and shaking its head wildly, eyes blown open-wide like its equally dark nostrils. Stephanie reaches for her shield rather than the sword, as it has become a reflex to opt for defense, grabs it tightly and starts to fumble with the horse’s manes, in a fruitless efforts to calm the animal. However, when the unclear shape becomes distinctively familiar, as she can detect limbs and hair and cape and hammer, she blows out air and quirks an eyebrow in amusement.

Thor doesn’t crash into the ground, although she kind of expected him to lose balance and fall flat on his face from the sheer impact, but instead lands gracefully, crouched with the hand holding his hammer stretched out in front of him. She pats the horse’s flank but the animal still bristles and shakes, its straight yellow teeth exposed.

“You’re scaring my horse.” Stephanie says as a substitute for a proper greeting, pressing one hand firmly against her hip as the other still has a good grip on her shield.

He rolls his eyes and responds, “You weren’t at your home.”

“ _No_ , I was here. Aren’t you gods supposed to be all-knowing?” She wonders, jutting out her left leg defiantly, a hint of a smile taking possession of her pouty mouth.

Thor stands, barely staggers from crashing down from the sky with more speed than anything humanly possible, rolls his shoulders back and stretches his arms before hanging his hammer back onto his belt. He waves her comment away and replies with a calm voice, “That would be my father.”

“A-ha.” Stephanie comments, before settling her shield down onto the ground and walking into his direction. He follows her step by step and soon they’re so close her chest would touch his abs if she would inhale deeply. He looks down at her as she looks up at him, he got his eyebrows raised and she has her hands on her hips.

She flashes him a silly simper and slowly wraps her arms around his waist and presses her left cheek against his armor. “How did you find me, then?” She asks in a hushed whisper.

“The amulet. Mjölnir is particularly sensitive to the magic resting within the charm.” He explains as he returns the gesture and then he unconsciously presses his lips to the crown of her golden hair.

There’s a chortle, low and fleeting, and she looks up at him with eyes full of wonder and excitement, and he could count freckles, dusted across her nose and cheekbones, but just as he was about to start she surprises him by standing on her tippy-toes and pressing a soft kiss to his chin. His hold tightens, arms coiling around her waist, lifting her up from the ground and raising her up. He feels how her palms curve along the clasps of his cape, on each side of his neck, and she locks gazes with him.

“Stephanie..” Thor begins, softly, unsure whether to kiss her or ask for her permission first. It’s titillating, this uncertainty, because he usually _takes whatever he wants_ without having to wonder whether it would be permitted or not.

“Why are you here, Thor?” Her question comes, catching him completely off guard.

He doesn’t put her down just yet, instead answers in a low voice, “I had a gift for you, but alas, I had to entrust it to our friend the blacksmith. Do you not.. Am I intruding on something, my lady? I’ve heard you were going to retrieve some items up north, but surely I could accompany you, make the journey pass by faster.”

She presses their foreheads together and chuckles at how his demeanor slipped from confident to nervous. How quaint to view a god-prince in this manner, _no_ to be able to see a god-prince in this manner.

“Have I truly struck your fancy?”

“I think that would’ve been rather apparent by now.” He sulks, focusing on the button of her nose and her full, pale-pink lips.

Thor supposes this is the moment he should’ve initiated a kiss, but he could not possibly interrupt the most beautiful smile he’s ever seen blossoming on her face. Her eyelids slid shut and the corners of her mouth are quivering lightly and he can see dimples forming. Words fail him for a moment so he simply smiles along, happy to see her so delighted by something he considered to be _obvious_.

Stephanie grimaces then, as a show of discomfort of some sorts. She motions him to put her down immediately and clutches her abdomen, scowling.

“Are you wounded, love?” He asks, one hand on her forearm, the other carefully prodding her stomach and side.

“Nothing out of the ordinary.. Ugh, I’m merely inconvenienced as opposed to truly being in pain, Thor.. I’ll be fine in a while, I think..”

He huffs out his irritation through his clenched teeth and wraps an arm around her shoulders, grounding her against him. It’s only then he notices the subtle muscle she’s acquired throughout the years, how she’s still frail but less fragile, how there’s more bulk to her than he’s accustomed. It stuns him momentarily, to be reminded how kind and graceful time can be to mortals, yet so unforgiving and relentless at the same time, like the slow-burn potions his brother likes to make.  Her soft groans capture his attention soon again and he peppers the crown of her head with kisses.

“You could not possibly hope to get anywhere in this state.” He reprimands gently, “I will simply fly you where you need to be. It will be much more efficient.”

Another groan, somewhere half-removed from a whimper, and she falls into him again. “You don’t know where I need to be. How could I point the line from high above? Let me wait for a while.” She replies, wanting nothing more than to lie down and sleep for an inane amount of time.

“We will remain close to soil, don’t fret. It won’t take long, I promise.” His fingers smoothen her somewhat wet hair, comb through them, linger along the back of her right ear.

Stephanie squints, murmurs, “I can’t leave the horse behind, the Lord Warden gave it to me.” She nuzzles her nose into his chest when his fingertips tease the back of her neck, slow mindless caresses. “You’re not playing particularly fair.” She accuses when his index fingers stoops past line of her shirt.

“I’m a god in this realm, it is hardly required of me.” Thor teases, “We could come back for the horse.”

She mulls it over in her head. Makes up her mind.

“However, I’m taking my shield with us.” Her voice gives the impression of her being impossible to persuade. He chuckles in response and nods enthusiastically, showing he wasn’t even going to try and talk her out of the idea.

 

.

 

She looks beautiful when she cries.

Thor thinks he shouldn’t think like that, but he cannot help himself.

Her face is flustered, an almost scorching scarlet blotching her cheeks and the bridge of her nose, and her eyelids are slightly swollen. Her bottom lip is trembling from a sense of powerlessness. In her arms, she cradles a worn sword, holding it strongly against her chest.

Some of the fellow soldiers, weary and frozen both in stubby fingertips and toes as well as hearts, watch passively from the sidelines. They’re not accustomed to such a sight, or perhaps, on the contrary, they are _too_ accustomed to tears and heartache, to shed sorrow in the crack of dawn, to such a paralyzing fear before the club or sword or spear strikes down. He tries to focus on his own steady heartbeat, lest the jumpiness of an impending battle intoxicates him.

Stephanie starts to speak, in a croaky, hoarse voice. “Take us back, Thor.”

He’s solemn when he extends his hand to pull her upright, mouth set in a grim, tightly-drawn line. None of the exhausted Englishmen are inclined to follow them, draw them into comforting conversation or offer them some food to ease their travels. They’re too hungry themselves, Thor knows, if the slope of their heavy shoulders, the harsh line of their jaws and the incomparable whites of their eyes is anything to go by. Instead, one or two look at them in envy, they’re not quite as lucky to escape the border, the violence and the unforgiving Scottish.

They retreat back, away from inquisitive eyes. He does so on her request, because she doesn’t want to draw too much attention to them being able to soar through cloud and sky. Her frame crumbles underneath the fresh weight of grief and as he wraps an arm around her waist, feeling the curve of her metal shield and the spine of a blade, he tries to look at something other than her teary face.

She looks _so_ beautiful when she cries, but he dislikes it _so_ very much.

 

.

 

They spend the night underneath the stars, sprawled on their backs in the grass whilst holding hands loosely. He searches the dark sky for constellations he recognizes, but they’re quite different from Midgard as opposed to his favorable spot at Asgard. With his free hand, he points at a collection of stars and gestures towards them to make a somewhat distinguishable shape out of them. Her chest heaves and deflates as she exhales loudly, still shaken from the day’s events.

“He would take me stargazing sometimes, pretend he knew the names too.” Stephanie confides softly, as her gaze switches from the flickering lights above to the profile of her god-prince. “I just.. I wish I was a man, Thor, I wish I could’ve been there for him like he was there for me.”

He gives her hand a slight squeeze. Feels her squeeze back and knows she’s probably flashing him a small, grateful smile.

“You would’ve been a mighty warrior, no doubt.” He comments as he turns onto his side to watch her. He observes the slenderness of her throat, the modest shape of her bosom, the hollow of her stomach and even the stubs that are her toes. They’re extremely pale in the moonlight and wriggle insecurely, from the cold perhaps.

Stephanie chuckles, turns onto her side as well. They’re facing each other now. She says softly, “I would’ve gotten myself killed. Too rash, Tony calls me. Too selfless, that’s what James said.”

“But made of stars, as we all are.” Thor whispers, carefully rubbing the bulb of her right cheek with his thumb. “No doubt you were made of the brightest.” He adds, not as an afterthought, but more as a something meaningful that deserves a pause.

“How flattering, no bard could come up with comparisons as you can.” She teases, closes her eyes and breathes in.

He shakes his head and speaks lowly, ever watching her, “The truth deserves beauty, _sometimes_. As it is oft an ugly thing.”

“Stop.. Stop talking for a moment, will you?” Stephanie asks, drawing his hand closer to her abdomen, resting both of theirs on her navel. “I want to..” She doesn’t finish her sentence and leans forwards. Her eyes are still closed.

They kiss, chastely, press into each other until Thor hauls his other arm around her and pulls her close. She feels his beard against her chin and it’s a somewhat funny feeling, actually. He almost looks offended when she breaks down laughing, genuinely. Eventually he laughs along, what else is he to do with this curious girl in his embrace.

“I could stay here for a very long time.” Her confession is raspy, as if the words came out in a shudder.

He hums, nuzzling his nose into her blonde curls. His fingers strum along her spine, upwards and then downwards, as if they’re dancing. “I could steal you away.” It’s a strange suggestion.

Her eyes dart open again, quickly. She’s met with the sight of his chest, stripped from plate and armor. He smells like salt, metal, leather and earth, not an entirely disagreeable combination. She murmurs something, her lips moving against his skin and he can’t hear her so she has to say it again.

“For a night of unchristian debauchery?”

Patting her head softly, he murmurs, a tad confused, “I don’t understand, but if you assume it a just idea.”

She merely grins and twines their fingers together.

 

.

 

She names the cat Bucky once they’ve returned from the journey, because he always bucks his head against her shin in order to get attention. It sleeps on her cot and watches her toil in her brewery whilst lazily licking the pink pads of its paws clean. Stephanie coos at the animal and gives him all sorts of treats, inedible parts of the fish she had for dinner or some leftover lard. Thor stays for a few more days, helps her build some sort of grave for her late friend, a bundle of earth and wood and his sword, standing proudly upright like a cross, and takes care of her. After four days, he knows he has to return to Asgard and takes his leave solemnly. Tony, who looks older – _but certainly not wiser, she chides whenever he brings up the fact she’s practically wedded to a heathen god_ -, visits more often since he has difficulty managing the smithy and works less to compensate for his weakening body.

Stephanie notices she has more trouble breathing sometimes. Her lungs are heavy as bronze jugs, full of mead or lukewarm milk, in the mornings. Her sides ache and she can’t find any means of comparison for this pain. She barely manages to get out of her cabin because her skin is slick with skin and she feels like she’s burning up from the inside. The amulet feels clammy on her chest but nothing could ever force her to take it off.

He has to come back, _soon_. Tony tells her he will, he always comes back _for her_ , but the last part remains unsaid in the conversations themselves, it’s merely an unspoken afterthought in both of their minds.

 

.

 

Her coughs come with a vile-smelling, thin fluid. It has a vivid, yellowish color.

 

.

 

“I am warning you, brother.” Loki drawls lazily, hand hovering over the wooden-carved figurines on the board. “That was an imprudent move.”

He flicks a warrior-like pawn down and the fall comes with a hollow thud. It lies face-down on the board for a few moments until Thor, finally drawn out of his reverie, collects the wooden stature back into the box. His gaze falls upon the other pawns but his mind refuses to come up with a suitable strategy. Meanwhile, Loki grins at the sight of his scowl and thinly-stretched mouth, bright-eyed and bare-toothed.

Another click, a stature forced away from its resting place and joining two others on the foreground of the battlefield. It holds a miniature axe fearlessly, facing the darker-colored counterparts on the middle of the board. Loki chuckles, but it’s without any genuine mirth, more with a sense of _this is getting old_.

“You’re more scatter-brained than usual, brother.” He comments as he moves a stature around that of Thor and knocks it down from behind.

Thor rolls his eyes as he takes the figurine from his younger brother, who looks entirely taken with himself. He mumbles, “These games do nothing to divert myself.”

“You’ve asked father for permission, then?” He wonders aloud, starting to clear the board and settling everything back into the box.

Thor looks positively annoyed and rolls his shoulders back, disgruntled.

“And he’s declined, hasn’t he?” Loki continues, unperturbed by his older brother’s petulance. As much as the spoiled crown prince act discourages and irritates him, Thor is still his family, after all.

Two Einherjars, holding guard by the entrance to the leisure room, stomp the ends of their spears forcefully down onto the floor. Simultaneously, they stand upright and square their shoulders, stick their chins out, and remain still. Loki huffs at how the heavy double doors are slammed open wide and closes the lid of the box, wiping away some imaginary dust. Thor raises a curious eyebrow when Heimdall enters, dignified but somewhat disturbed. He gets up from his seat immediately and meets him halfway.

“Something has occurred on Midgard.” He leaves no room for decorum, his gaze turns from the prince’s face to the ground.

Only one word crosses his mind, _no_.

His hands fall to his sides.

 

.

 

She’s got a grave next to that of her friend. Only hers isn’t empty. The tombstone is a large rock, with a crown of flowers woven around the width. Thor has this feeling it means something he should know, but knowledge fails him at the sight of fresh earth turned, marking that there is in fact a casket is hidden away somewhere beneath. He isn’t quite sure how to proceed and the sky is a dark, solemn testimony of his emotional conflict. It’s drizzling, softly but consistently and when he tilts his head upwards, needle-point thick droplets calmly pelt down on his cheeks and lips.

“I thought I’d see you here..”

Thor doesn’t turn around, he recognizes the scratchy voice immediately. He doesn’t trust his vocal cords, because his throat feels clogged and his heart is heavy and he has no idea what syllables he might press out and how comprehensible they could be. Instead, he lowers his gaze again, folds his hands in front of him and forces a breath through his nostrils.

“Figured you’d come sooner, actually.” Tony remarks off-handedly, his voice coming closer and closer until his figure is at his side. “Although she wouldn’t have wanted you to see her in her final hours.”

He closes his eyes, debates whether to ask for the reason or send the blacksmith away all together. Borders between desperately needing someone to talk to him, talk him through this, and being completely away, seething and mourning in solitude.

“She was so terribly sick, Thor.” He almost whispers, almost leaning into him. For a second, the god-prince is _again_ taken aback by how much older the blacksmith looks. He seems exhausted and the veins around his eyes are standing out more pronounced, adding a couple more years to his real age.

A low cough, his knuckles –where they always this pale?, Thor wonders as he catches the sight of them from his peripheral- pushed against the plush of chapped lips. Tony squeezes his eyes shut for a second. His face is pale as well, and wet.

“I tried to look after ‘er, but she wouldn’t take much help.” He continues, with strangled words but forcibly composed. Thor commends him in his mind, _but he has nothing to prove_. They stand both united in grief at this grave.

He shakes his head, bites down on his knuckles and opens his eyes again, blinking slowly a few times. He says, “Steph was a fighter ‘til the end, said she didn’t want her soldier to see her so soon already.. She wanted to be able to tell him stories about a long life.” Tony cocks his head in the god-prince’s direction and tries to smile.

Thor places his hand on his friend’s shoulder to steady him. “You did all you could, my friend.” Somehow he didn’t expect he could’ve formed a proper consolation.

“It wasn’t enough..” Tony grits out, bowing towards the decorative rock marking the grave with furrowed brows. He repeats it again, in frustration, with glossy eyes, “It wasn’t _enough_.”

He wonders what would’ve happened if he gotten here sooner, if his father approved of his request to move her to Asgard, if Tony could’ve saved her, if she wouldn’t have gotten sick in the first place. So many possibilities and _what ifs_ shroud his mind, he feels dizzy for a split-second, a fraction in time where not even Mjölnir could’ve sensed him.

Midgard seems so desolate to him, now.

 

.

 

Odin eyes the penchant, stuck between his thumb and index finger, curiously and hums lowly, in approval. As if he sees something past the metal and cheap magic, Thor and all of Asgard could not.

“Where did you find this, son?” He asks, although he can probably mimic the answer as Thor pronounces it.

He declares, “Midgard, father. It belonged to a valiant and wondrous woman. It has been passed along to me through a mutual friend and I have decided to gift it to you.” His gaze hardens as he approaches the end of his sentence.

In return, he gets a nod and has to watch how his father beckons one of his ravens closer. Muninn caws impatiently and experimentally clamps the cupper thread between the jet-black jaws of its beak. Odin raises his arms so the proud bird can take flight. No destination is discussed, no words are exchanged. Thor feels strangely left out and rolls back his shoulders nervously, suddenly recalling his early days as a petulant child creating havoc in the throne room.

“I will store your gift away somewhere safely. Rest assured, Thor.” His father assures, holding up a hand as a sign of compliance.

 

.

 

Near the roots of Yggdrasil, connection of the Nine Realms and the tree of worlds, stand three kettles. One contains infinite wisdom and harbors inside an eye of a god-king. Another is called the Roaring Kettle and within a fearsome beast roams.

Last there is the Well of Fate, which water gives life to the tree as ordained by the Norns.

Munnin drops the amulet into its depths. Soon the cupper gets scrubbed away and reveals a bright, silver-like core. Various runes, much older and intricate than those on the cupper shell, were scratched into the material.

It is much later, centuries upon centuries, that the amulet gets scooped up again by one of the Norns. And serves to feed the tree. And the tree sustains the realms. And from one of the realms, a girl is born anew.

 

.

 

_No doubt, you were made of the brightest star_.

 

.

 

When he returns to Midgard, he is no longer god, nor prince. Upon this journey of self-reflection, he learns what humility entails, tastes love _again_ on mortal lips and loses a brother. There’s nothing but bitterness upon his tongue when he regains his royal title and joins his father as an heir. Sometimes, when he closes his eyes and blocks out the sounds around him, he sees Loki let go and fall into the abyss. Sometimes, it is not Loki, but the abyss that stares back at him, before swallowing his brother _no not his brother_ , _no longer kin but still family forever family_ whole.

 

.

 

“Loki has the tesseract.” Odin speaks, solemn and with fingers tightly curled around his staff.

There’s a nod, then the imperceptible gesture of doubt as he swallows, then the crossing of gazes. His father’s one good eye seems to cry lightning.

“Bring your brother home.” He doesn’t simply say so, but decrees.

 

.

 

Thor doesn’t know what quarrel Loki has with Midgard, but the bitter feelings growing rampant in his younger brother’s heart have finally poisoned his mind with sentiments of power and megalomania. He can sense the evil bewitching him turning those around him stale as well.

There’s a woman with cupper curls and sharp eyes. Then a nervous-looking man who seems to carry something dark within him. Another man who speaks in abrasive words and has a peculiar instrument placed in the center of his chest. It’s a hollow blue and prickles from behind his shirt. He can trace the outlines with his eyes if he wanted too. He looks familiar, but at the same time doesn’t. The leader was a man who reminded him of his father, a posture bearing authority and secrets blended into one another seamlessly.

And lastly, there’s a blonde woman in red, white and blue. She wears a star on her chest like it’s a signifier of great value. Her levelheadedness came in the form of an iron will and an even stronger shield.

He thinks he’s forgetting something incredibly important, but there’s only anger where there should be calm.

_Were Midgardians always this petty and small?_

 

.

 

New York City is in ruins and they’re fighting still. He’s on the ground, battling a batch of Chitauri aliens alongside the blonde woman. They call her Captain America and she’s much more stronger and agile than the other Midgardians he’s encountered thus far. Her presence demands respect but he’s seen his friend, the SHIELD agent, watch her with a sensation that borders on outright devotion. Thor must admit her judgment is fair and reasonable, as well as her strategies have proven to be well-thought and compatible to their rag-tag team.

He watches her take a hit and fall to the ground. Hears her cry out from shock and pain.

She looks up to him, her gaze switches from his face to his outstretched hand. Her blond hair is disheveled and her cheeks are flustered. There’s a bruise developing on her left cheek, it’s a mixture between purple and yellow.

“You ready for another bout?”

It draws a disbelieving scoff from her lips, followed by, “What, you gettin’ sleepy?”

More enemies approach, the battle continues, and Thor thinks something inside of him _clicked_ together. He’s too tired to truly smile, but there’s another shoot of adrenalin to keep him going.

They can’t lose this. They _won’t_.

 

.


End file.
